She Is Your Wife, Isn't She?
by Historybuff
Summary: The only way Jefferson will write the Declaration is if Adams can send for his sweet little wife Martha. He is able to do so because of an unexpected helper... So he thinks. The ultimate 1776 crack-fic... that I've come up with so far.
1. Chapter 1

**_She Is Your Wife, Isn't She? By: Historybuff and LoyalSark_**

**_Chapter 1_**

_**  
**_"Mr. Jefferson, you are driving me to homicide!" Adams exploded as he skipped up the steps leading to Congress. Jefferson had been allotted a specific amount of time to write this declaration and yet what was he doing? Scratching at his fiddle! Adams, as always, was feeling agitated. After all, he had made it a point to awake especially early that morning so that he would be able to visit Jefferson and take note of any progress he may have made before Congress convened. But as soon as he arrived, he saw just how much, or rather, how little, Jefferson had accomplished in his first night. It was quite a despicable sight, Adams thought. Had Jefferson written so much as a sentence, Adams would have been able to justify the sight that met his eyes as soon as he opened the door. However, with it becoming all too clear that Jefferson was not inflicted with the least bit of motivation at the present time, Adams could do little else but grimace as he had stood there, watching the redheaded tombstone hunched over his violin, a string of drool practically oozing out of the corner of his mouth, and a tall pile of crumpled, unused paper at his feet. Adams wanted to reproach him for his wastefulness, but thought better of it. Everything he said while attempting to lift Jefferson's spirits was met with total apathy. Finally, starting to lose the patience that Adams normally would have lost the moment he entered the room, he decided to depart, his face flushing with irritation. Before he could continue with his unpleasant thoughts, Adams saw that Benjamin Franklin had arrived in his little portable chair, which was currently being carried by two bribed prisoners.

"Stop a moment, boys!" Franklin demanded. The prisoners did as they were told, though their knees immediately began to quiver under the weight. "John, your expression is more sour than usual."

"Dammit, Franklin! I don't know what can be done! That useless Virginian dolt spends so much time reflecting over his own problems that he does not have time to fix mine!"

"I assume that you're speaking of Mr. Jefferson?"

"Yes! It's just so very aggravating. Everything is set for success. Can he really not indulge me with a week of his time?"

"You think you have problems. Look at this!" Franklin randomly shoved his giant gouty foot through the window for John to examine. John scrunched his face is disgust.

"Why would I possibly want to look at that?" Adams snapped.

"My apologies!" Franklin grumbled, struggling to get his giant foot back inside, almost causing his prisoners to drop to their knees under the wavering pressure.

"This wife of his must be even more spectacular than what we're imagining, for her to be occupying his thoughts to this extent. It's positively indecent!" Unbeknownst to Adams, Franklin suddenly noticed a group of pretty young ladies strolling in the opposite direction. Not particularly wanting to interrupt Adams' rambling, he decided it would be best to just sneak away. He signaled for his prisoners to follow the women, leaving Adams alone, ranting to himself. "Honestly, if I didn't know better, I might think that the only way to fix this problem would be to send for Mrs. Jefferson. How else are we going to obtain a declaration? Oh, we may obtain one. But I can tell you right now just how well-written it would be: 'We want independence. King George is bad. The end.' I might as well write it myself! But if Mrs. Jefferson were to come…" Adams stopped for a moment to reflect. "If she would come… our problems would be solved, would they not? Oh, but I suppose this is ridiculous. On my measly pension, how could I possibly afford to send for her? No, it's absolutely preposterous. Really, it makes me laugh to think about! Franklin, you must stop me when I start rambling like this. Isn't it an absurd idea, Franklin? Uh…Franklin?" Adams whipped his head in both directions, realizing that he had been abandoned. His immediate reaction was to glance up at the window to assure himself that a source of pure evil in a green coat was not lurking there, laughing at his expense. Thankfully, it was not. He sighed in relief and turned to enter the building. However, he was soon accosted by another source of pure evil, only this time, clad in a bright white frock coat.

"I couldn't help but overhear what you were sayin', Mr. Adams."

"Could you not?" Adams scoffed. "Admit it… You were peeping! Well… in the auditory sense of the word. (Though technically there is no auditory connotation to the word peeping.)"

"Mr. Adams, you were the one screamin' to yourself."

"That's not true! I NEVER scream to myself!"

"You do so practically every day, sir."

Adams was about to protest again, but thought for a moment, perplexed. "I do?"

"Yes. It's usually about independence and all of the new tactics you've contrived in order to convince us to be in accordance with your wishes."

"I scream to myself about independence? I never knew. Although… that does explain how Mr. Dickinson always is somehow prepared to smash all of my new ideas to dust. Anyway, what do you want, Rutledge?"

"Well, I thought, if you'd like, that I may be able to help you with your little problem."

"Ha!" Adams bellowed. "You help me? Very good, Rutledge. You almost amused me."

"I'm perfectly serious, sir. I would be willin' to help you." Adams scrutinized Rutledge's expression, trying to detect any form of sarcasm in it. To his surprise, there was none. "I'm aware that independence will never be a settled issue unless it's one that we've all agreed to. You would never allow it to be any other way. That being said, I think that we could use a declaration free from such phrases as… 'King George is bad.' Do you not concur, Mr. Adams?"

"Oh, yes. I concur. I just do not entirely believe that you do! You spend day after day fighting the cause, stating that we are not ready. Why would you want to assist in the creation of a document that would deliberately state that we _are_ ready? You're contradicting yourself, are you not? Or… I know. There's a reason for you generosity, isn't there? What do you want, Rutledge?" At this, Edward Rutledge's bright white teeth began to gleam in the morning sunlight.

"Mr. Adams, I would like nothing more than this: One uncontested veto on any particular part of the declaration that I deem inappropriate."

"I'm not sure if I understand. You want to assist in the creation of the declaration so that you can veto it?"

"Not the entire thing! As I said, just one particular part that I might not agree with."

"And… if I say no to your little proposition? Then what?"

"Well…" Rutledge muttered with a nonchalant shrug. "I suppose you'll have to depend on the others' generosity. Maybe you should ask Mr. Dickinson if he would be willing to help you!" Rutledge was about to walk up the steps when Adams summoned him back frantically.

"Are you saying that, if I am willing to agree to your idea, you would vote for independence, provided that you receive your veto?"

"You have my honorable word, Mr. Adams." Adams was not entirely certain just how honorable Rutledge's word might be, but it was too great an offer for him to ignore. "Have you decided, sir? Or, upon observin' your continued silence, should I just assume that the deal is not to your likin'?"

Adams swallowed with great difficulty, realization of what he was about to do striking him like a lightning bolt. Unable to muster up words, he simply held out his hand. Rutledge grinned once more and gave it a firm shake. Adams closed his eyes in anxiety and wiped the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief. "Wait!" Adams cried out. Rutledge turned back, puzzled. "I feel the need to clarify something. When you spoke of an 'uncontested veto'… you're not planning on vetoing independence itself, are you?" Rutledge burst out laughing and went up the stairs, shaking his head. Adams stared up at him as he disappeared, expectantly. He groaned to himself disapprovingly. "He didn't answer me. That is a bad omen."


	2. Chapter 2

**_Chapter 2_**

_**  
**_"Good afternoon, Mrs. Jefferson. I trust that your journey here was pleasant," Rutledge said, grinning. Martha Jefferson stared at him for a moment blankly, but then smiled softly to be polite. "Oh! Forgive me," Rutledge corrected himself, bowing before her. "I am Mr. Edward Rutledge, an acquaintance of your husband. As you know, Mr. Jefferson is not aware that you are here. For this reason, I decided to take the liberty of showin' you to him, if you don't mind."

"Not at all. But the letter I received requesting my arrival was from Mr. John Adams, was it not?"

"Yes, it was. But I was the one to finance your trip and for that reason, I thought I might like to meet you myself."

"How very kind, Mr. Rutledge." To prevent an awkward moment of silence, he offered her his hand, which she accepted graciously, and assisted her out of the carriage. He effortlessly took hold of her trunk and insisted upon carrying it for her.

"Mr. Jefferson is not far from here. I have my carriage right around the corner if you are too fatigued from your journey to walk."

"Oh no. I would much rather walk! It's such a lovely day. But of course if you would rather we take the carriage-"

"Not at all, madam. As you said, it's a lovely day for a stroll." Martha smiled cheerily as he took her arm in his. "Have you ever visited Philadelphia?"

"No, I'm afraid I have not. I cannot imagine how my husband lives here. Oh, I beg your pardon. I did not mean to sound rude. It's just that I'm only used to seeing him in the blissful solitude of Monticello."

"It's perfectly understandable. I suppose Philadelphia is quite lively compared to the quietude of many parts of the Deep South. I myself cannot honestly say that I've entirely grown accustomed to life here. It's a sharp contrast to my own estate in South Carolina. But I assure you, my dear lady, that we are quite safe."

As he said this, Martha noticed a rather disturbed-looking gentleman on a horse gallop by. He kept glancing behind him in agitation, nearly trampling several terrorized children who had been unintelligently playing in the street. He barked a few harsh words to them and increased his speed, continuously looking over his shoulder in paranoia. Upon observing this, Martha's expression turned to one of deep concern, causing Rutledge to turn about, trying to see what the trouble was.

"Ah," he said, nodding. "Have no fear, madam. That gentleman there would be Mr. Dickinson."

"Well, something must be terribly wrong with him! He looked like a frightened rabbit!"

"No, no. He's perfectly fine."

"I suppose it's really none of my concern. But, if I may, what exactly is he running from?"

"Mr. Dickinson is running from his one source of pure agitation: James Wilson." Martha stared, puzzled. "Let me elaborate. Mr. Dickinson, according to many of his acquaintances, is a rather… unhappy man. To be quite candid, there are days when he's downright snippy! But the reason for this is, as I previously mentioned, a man named James Wilson, who originally was Mr. Dickinson's protégée, but has now become such a dependant, irritating little devil, Mr. Dickinson no longer desires to have anything to do with him."

"Good heavens!" Martha exclaimed. "Couldn't Mr. Wilson find any new friends?"

"That's the most pathetic part of it all! He doesn't want any other friends. The only person he holds in high esteem is Mr. Dickinson."

"And Mr. Dickinson cannot simply order Mr. Wilson to let him be?"

"Well, now politics are involved, Mrs. Jefferson. I shall not bother you with details. But certain controversial topics are being debated in Congress and without Mr. Wilson's support, Mr. Dickinson's control over his own colony would be totally annihilated." Martha nodded slightly, though in reality, she had no idea what he was talking about. "Well, Mrs. Jefferson, let us cross the street. Your husband's lodgings are right over there," he said, pointing. Martha hesitantly followed behind Rutledge, not particularly comfortable with the idea of standing in the street for any measure of time. "Oh!" Rutledge exclaimed. "Well, look at that! The tavern replaced its old dingy windows with shiny new ones!" After noticing this, Rutledge could not help but stare in admiration at his own reflection. "Hello, beautiful!" he mumbled under his breath, smoothing a wavy strand of auburn hair from his eyes.

"I beg your pardon, sir?" Martha snapped, taking a step back from him, closer to the center of the street.

"I was not speakin' to you, my dear. I was describin' him!" he explained, gesturing to his reflection. If Martha had not been distracted by her own mental debate over whether she should be offended by his pompous vanity or reluctantly agree with it, she would have noticed a large carriage racing down the street directly towards her, the driver completely out of control.

"JOHN!!!" the driver screamed. "John Dickinson! WAIT FOR ME!!!!"

The carriage continued to drive speedily towards Martha and before she even had the opportunity to react, it plowed over her, smashing her entire body into the ground. It took Rutledge several moments to look away from the delightful gorgeousness that was reflecting towards him, but when he did finally glance over to where Martha had been, a very gruesome sight met his eyes.

"OH MY GOD!" he cried out, hunching over to see if she was breathing. He could not observe her closely because that would have required dropping to his knees, which would have ruined his brilliant white breeches. But from what he could see, Martha Jefferson was, at this point, undeniably dead.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Chapter 3_**

_**  
**_Mr. Rutledge paced around his bedchamber in a panic. His hands trembled and he suddenly felt as though he could not breathe.

"What did I do? What did I do? WHAT DID I DO?!" he cried out helplessly. As soon as he had come to the grim realization that the flattened Martha Jefferson had taken her last breath, his mind became very dark. He was not entirely sure what had come over him at the time of the incident, but he did distinctly remember James Wilson, the culprit, riding back towards the scene of the accident, his face masked with terror. It was at that point that Rutledge suffered from slight amnesia. The next thing he knew, he was running up the stairs towards his room. "Oh god! She's DEAD!" he exclaimed. "And what's worse… I am indirectly responsible. What will the gentlemen of the Congress think of me? What will Adams think of me?" Yes, in his typical Rutledge-like fashion, it was not Jefferson's grief that he worried about. It was far more important for him to preserve his impeccable reputation than to worry over such trifling matters as the hurt feelings of others. But what could he possibly do to prevent the news from spreading? The only one that knew of her demise, besides himself, was James Wilson, and thankfully, he would have no way of knowing that the woman he trampled was indeed Martha.

But if he did not accomplish his task, he would be forfeiting his veto. There was little doubt about it. He must find a woman who resembled Martha Jefferson to go there, introduce herself to Adams, and take care of Jefferson. Perhaps he could find such a lady in New Brunswick! Though Rutledge would ordinarily prefer to die than become involved in such shady business, he realized that if he were to do this without any problems arising (because that was so likely), not only would his reputation remain intact, but he would be able to claim his veto. But could he really trust a New Brunswick whore to take care of such a risky task?

"I swear! The only person I could ever rely on would be myself!" he exclaimed. He froze, a new idea forming in his mind that was too insane for him to actually put into words. He leapt towards a mirror and began to run his fingers over his facial features in a rather disturbing manner. "It's a frightening idea! But…as I said… who else could be trusted?" There were several other reasons why the idea tempted him, the main being that there was no time to travel to New Brunswick and back before Adams would start becoming suspicious, and even if that were not a problem, taking the mission upon himself would save him the cost of traveling. (Rutledge simply had not thought of the fact that there most likely were many ladies in Philadelphia who would be just as willing to take the job as there were in New Brunswick). But if he were to attempt to complete such a daring mission, he would need some assistance.

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"Pull harder, McNair!" Rutledge snapped, grasping onto a bedpost as McNair reluctantly tugged on the strings of his corset.

"How did you ever convince me to help you with your strange problem?" McNair grumbled.

"You have no choice in the matter! You're Congressional Slave!" McNair's little head shot up, offended.

"I have told you a hundred times, Mr. Rutledge, I AM NOT YOUR SLAVE! I'm Congressional Custodian!"

"Call it what you like. You know you would never refuse a master- I mean…friend… in need of your assistance. And I'll leave you to conjure up your own punishment if you dare to ever speak of this to anyone!" McNair thought about defending himself, but instead took hold of the corset strings and vengefully gave them one violent tug. Rutledge yelped in pain. "Careful! I cannot breathe, you fool!"

"This was your idea… Wait… Tell me again… Why exactly are you doing this?"

"I've already said! Why can't you listen?" McNair dropped the strings once more and crossed his arms defiantly.

"Am I to believe that you indirectly murdered Jefferson's wife and, for some odd reason, are dressing up as her in order to trick Mr. Adams into believing that you've accomplished your task in order for you to receive your uncontested veto?"

"Yes! Now keep pulling! I need to fit into her dress!" McNair did as he was told, though still deeply puzzled by the whole thing.

"You don't see _any_ plot holes in your plan?" McNair questioned. Rutledge sighed impatiently.

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know. I might think that Jefferson would realize that you're not his wife."

"Have you ever been inside Mr. Jefferson's lodgings? The lighting is terrible! You can hardly see your own hand right in front of your eyes. Also, Jefferson has not seen his wife in six months. I'm sure his memory might be a little fuzzy."

"All right. Providing that you can convince him that you're his wife… What are you planning on doing if he becomes 'ungentlemanly'?" Rutledge's face flushed with embarrassment.

"I will avoid standing close to him as long as I can. And if he persists… I'll bludgeon him with whatever hard object I can find."

"Simple enough," McNair whispered, his eyes widened.

"Don't misunderstand me," Rutledge explained. "I'm not assuming that this will be an easy task. But if fortune will be in my favor, I think that it very well can be accomplished."

"All this for an uncontested veto?"

"Yes!"

"Uh huh… You don't suppose that perhaps your being a little insensitive to the fact that you're partly responsible for the death of another person? And not only another person, but the wife of one of your colleagues."

"Enough!" Rutledge snapped, finally becoming irritated. "Kindly desist with your brainless questions. There's too much to do. I need to somehow fit into this thing!" Since bending in a corset was not an option, Rutledge strived to reach down into the late Martha Jefferson's trunk and lifted a heavy gown. He thrust it towards McNair, who huffily pulled it over Rutledge's head.

"Uh…" McNair stammered nervously. "I don't know if this dress is going to fit…all parts of you."

"What's wrong?!"

"Frankly, Mrs. Jefferson had twig arms and yours are…rather meaty." Rutledge peeked out from under the dress, flattered that McNair had taken notice of his rather attractive biceps, but nevertheless exasperated by this trivial dilemma.

"Pull harder!" he ordered. Once again, McNair obeyed. As soon as he did so, they both knew that they had made a terrible mistake. As Rutledge bent his arms down, they heard a loud 'rip!' coming from both sleeves. Though Rutledge was often referred to as a master of self-composure, he could not help but let out a few curses under his breath. McNair squirmed uneasily, trying to think of a solution.

"Ah ha!" he blurted out, lifting another gown from the trunk. "This one has puffy sleeves! You'd look quite stunning in it!"

"No!" Rutledge hissed. "I'm saving that one in case there's some kind of an emergency!" McNair immediately thought of half a dozen ways that he could tease Rutledge for making this ridiculous statement, but upon considering the heat that he might receive for doing so, McNair preferred to keep silent. "It's fine, McNair. We'll tear off the sleeves and I'll just have to wear that dark golden cape with this."

"Hmmm…"McNair lifted the cape. "The color compliments your hair." Rutledge's head jerked up, an expression of panic suddenly on his face.

"Wait… Oh! I… I need- I-"

"Speak plainly!" McNair snapped.

"A wig! I need a lady's wig! What shall I do?"

"Oh, is that all?" McNair said with a relieved smile. "What kind do you need? Long? Short? Straight? Curly? Blonde? Red? Powdered?"

"Wait, wait, wait!" Rutledge bellowed. "How could you possibly have access to so many wigs?" McNair's face turned to the shade of a tomato.

"Um… No reason."

"No. I am serious. I want to know."

"Well…" McNair's eyes turned shamefully to his feet. "I collect them." Rutledge stared at him without blinking for several moments.

"Very well… And… why?"

"For my own amusement!" McNair exploded. "Do you want one or not?"

"YES!" Rutledge answered eagerly, thinking it best to stop asking so many questions.

"What kind?" McNair crossed to Rutledge's desk and dipped a quill in ink, preparing to copy his order. "Long or short?"

"Uh… quite long."

"Straight or curly?"

"Well… Neither. Kind of wavy, I suppose."

"Fine, fine. And the color?"

"I guess I would call it golden blonde. It was particularly wavy around her face. And there was a small bun on top of her head!" McNair scribbled for several moments before looking up with satisfaction.

"I have the perfect one!" Rutledge gave a half-smile, the situation being far too awkward for him to express excitement.

"Well… thank you, McNair. This is oddly convenient." McNair ignored Rutledge's gratitude. He jumped up from his chair and stepped towards the door sprightly.

"I will be back within the hour!" Rutledge nodded in affirmation and McNair departed.  
As soon as Rutledge was alone, he struggled to lie down on his bed. Normally, he would have sprawled out on a chair, but the restraint of the corset made this quite impossible. Though he had endeavored to adopt the coolest façade he could muster up when explaining the peculiar plan to McNair, the same question continuously haunted his mind, not matter how much he tried to force it away:

_  
Was it possible that the artful plan of the great Edward Rutledge might actually end in failure?_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter 4**_

_And what has Wilson been doing all this time? Well…_

James Wilson jumped from his carriage and ran towards the crushed corpse.

"Oh no! Oh no! What do I do?" he squealed, frightened. "Maybe I should revive her!" He bent down to flop the unknown woman onto her back, but then realized that doing so would require touching her bruised, disgusting body. "Ewwwww…," he whined as he reluctantly took hold of her arm with the very ends of his finger tips. "Miss," he called, poking her a few times. She did not reply, _clearly_ signifying that she was dead. Wilson looked from side to side. He could have sworn that he had seen someone with the young woman, but perhaps he had been mistaken.

He had no time to think this through. There was only one warm-hearted person that Wilson could think of who would aid him in this frightening dilemma…

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"JOOOOHN!" Wilson screeched, rapping on the front door of the home of Mr. John Dickinson.

Inside, Dickinson was reclining on a sofa, drinking a cup of tea. He had previously been rejoicing over the fact that he had managed to escape from his annoying little shadow. But alas! he had been discovered.

"Maybe if I just ignore him…" he grumbled under his breath. "He will leave… FOREVER!" Dickinson frantically signaled for the servant to not answer the door. The servant shrugged and disappeared. The room fell silent. Relieved, Dickinson took another sip of steaming tea. As he did so, there was more banging at the door. Startled, he spilled the tea all over his vest. He jumped from the sofa, sighing irritably, and began to wipe the scorching beverage with his handkerchief.

"JOOOOOOOHN!!!!!" Wilson wailed. His cries were becoming too pathetic for Dickinson to ignore. Moaning and grumbling, Dickinson stormed to the door and opened it, revealing a shaking James Wilson and a large sack sitting next to him. "Uh… Hi, John." An awkward silence prevailed.

"Wilson… What have you done?" Wilson looked up to see Dickinson eying the sack accusingly.

"Uh…" Wilson began to twitch under Dickinson's glare. "I… may need another burial plot under your house." Dickinson opened his mouth to speak, but simply could not form the words. Wilson cringed, fearing that Dickinson might slap him.

"All right!" Dickinson hissed, lifting the sack. "Who did you kill this time?"

"I do not know!" Wilson groaned. "I honestly do not know!"

"What's this? Victim number… five?"

Wilson chuckled nervously. "Uh, I think it's number six."

"Number six! Good God, James! Five accidental murders are terrible enough! Am I to assume that you are just being careless?!"

"Jooooohn… I'm not purposefully murdering people!"

"Well, there was my Great Aunt Bessy," Dickinson murmured, rubbing his chin pensively. "As I recall, you 'accidentally' poisoned her cider." Wilson shook his head, ashamed. "And there was my cousin Elizabeth, whom you crushed with a boulder… _twice_!"

"John, I'm not-"

"Cousin Roselyn. _That_ was an interesting death."

"John, she _told_ me to push her head down into that bucket of water! I assumed that when she began flailing her arms it meant that she wanted me to push harder."

"That one did not bother me so much. She was a rather stupid girl. But there was my niece, little Isabelle."

"No, John! I beg you, do not mention Isabelle-"

"You locked her in a trunk and FORGOT ABOUT HER!" Wilson turned away in disgrace. "And then of course, there's my favorite-"

"John, you promised that we would never speak of _that_ one again!"

"My sister, Eugenia. Tell me, James: How did you cause her unhappy fate?" Wilson turned away. "WILSON!" Frightened, Wilson mumbled something inaudibly. "What was that? I could not hear," Dickinson demanded.

"DECAPITATED! ACCIDENTALLY!"

"How could you possibly manage- Oh never mind. I find it to be incredibly strange that everyone you murder is somehow related to me. Who is it this time?"

"I told you, John! I really don't know!"

"I just pray that it is not my wife!"

"No, I would have recognized her…"

"Aunt Gertrude… Cousin Josephine… Oh my God! You killed Grandmother, didn't you?!"

"No! She's not old enough to be your-" Dickinson was no longer listening. After glancing from side to side to make sure that no one passing by would see them, he cautiously opened the sack and looked in. "Huh…" he mumbled. "You never fail to perplex me, James."

"Why? What is it?"

"I do not know this one."

"What?! How is that possible? I've never killed a complete stranger!"

"I am telling you that I do not know this young lady, James!" Wilson stared at the corpse, puzzled.

"How very queer indeed! Well… I guess we will just have to add her in with the rest of them."

"We will not!" Dickinson exclaimed indignantly. "A perfect stranger buried in with all of my relatives? How preposterous! Sometimes I think that you are quite insane, James!"

"Well, John! We have to do something with her!"

"Figure it out by yourself! I have no connection with this woman. Why should I help you with your crime? I don't even like you!"

"Oh, John. You don't mean that!" Wilson said, nudging Dickinson with an elbow awkwardly. Dickinson rolled his eyes, flicking Wilson's elbow away.

"Fine! But this is the last corpse I will dispose of! And I mean it this time!" Wilson sighed with relief as Dickinson shoved the young woman's head back into the sack and threw it towards the corner of the room.

"Well…" Wilson began, trying his best to sound nonchalant. "I see you've been having tea." He pointed towards Dickinson's soaked vest. "You always spill something on yourself when I come over. Is that not strange? Anyway, as long as the water's hot, maybe I will stay and have a cup with you-" As Wilson stepped forward, the door was promptly slammed in his face. "Oh…" Wilson squeaked, flustered. "Perhaps you're right! I should probably be going home now! I will see you tomorrow, John!" He waited in vain for a reply. To no ones' surprise, there was none.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter 5**_

"Franklin! Stop wasting time. There's work to be done!" Adams snapped. The two gentlemen had been forcing their way through a crowded market, attempting to find Jefferson's lodgings. Unfortunately for Mr. Adams, Franklin had been instantly distracted by a barrel of shiny red apples… or rather, the pretty young woman selling the shiny red apples. Franklin gave Adams an impatient glare. After cordially bowing before the apple lady, he quickly caught up with his moody little friend. "I was hoping to return to my own lodgings by nightfall. But apparently that is not likely to happen." Adams glanced accusingly towards Franklin.

"That's too bad, John. But I don't have to worry. I have a rendezvous after this."

"Ah, that explains it. With the apple peddler, I presume?"

"Who?" Franklin stared at Adams, confused. Adams rolled his eyes in disgust.

"Never mind!" They crossed towards a large building, several stories high, with a lovely garden in the front. The screech of a violin suddenly accosted their eardrums. "Ugh!" Adams gagged. "What is that racket?"

"The latest thing from Europe, John. It's called music."

Adams irritably climbed up the steps to Jefferson's door, the tired old man following. "I came to hear a pen scratching, not a bow!" Had he not heard enough of that terrible noise the last time he visited?

Putting formalities aside, Adams thrust the door open and crossed to Jefferson. Though the sight before him was considerably worse than it had been six days before, Adams thought, or rather hoped, that the situation might have improved. However, after a brief couple of minutes, Adams reluctantly accepted the fact that the Declaration, as it then stood, was a disaster in the making.

"A whole week! The entire earth was created in a week!"

"Someday… you must tell me how you did it." Adams sat up straight, quite offended.

"Disgusting." Adams' initial reaction was to lecture Jefferson as he had done six days before, telling him that it was morally unacceptable for the creation of their new nation to depend solely on Jefferson getting- Uh hmmm! Well… But perhaps there was a more tactful approach. He tried to assure the young man that if he came out of the dumps it would turn out all right. But as always, Jefferson clearly was not listening. And Franklin was practically no help at all. The first thing he did upon entering the room was pass out on Jefferson's bed. This was more than Adams' patience (or rather, lack thereof) could handle. "FRANKLIN!" he roared, beating his cane against the bedpost. Franklin sat up immediately. An obnoxious smile formed on his face as he stared towards the doorway.

"And who, little girl, are you?" Franklin asked in a sickeningly sweet voice. Adams craned his neck towards the general direction of the door. Standing there was the lovely silhouette of a young lady. Adams squinted, for in this terrible lighting, it was quite difficult for the three of them to see anything other than the shape of the woman.

"His wife… I hope."

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_The next segment of this tale was taken from the memoirs of Mr. Edward Rutledge and shall be written verbatim as he wrote it shortly after the time of the event…_

Without a doubt, this was the most anxious I had ever felt in my twenty-six years of life. I stared at Mr. Jefferson and he stared at me, a queer expression on his face. "Oh good Lord!" I thought to myself. "He's not as big of a love-starved fool as I had originally anticipated." He stood from his desk and raced towards me, fury burning in his eyes. I thought that he certainly was preparing to hit me. Reflecting upon the situation, I think I would have preferred that he hit me, considering what he did do instead. Before I had time to save myself, I had been swept into a passionate embrace, which, as God is my witness, was NOT to my liking! Knowing that at this point, I had no other choice but to stand there and bear it, I attempted to mentally remove myself from the situation. Mr. Adams, being the vain, pompous man that he was and is, introduced himself, as well as Dr. Franklin, to me, expecting me to swoon. Though I would not have admitted it at the time, I think I would have rather responded to Jefferson's affection than pretend to flatter Mr. Adams' ego.

"She is your wife, isn't she?" Adams asked. Oh, how misled he was! For a brief moment, I reveled in my hoodwinking of the great John Adams. But upon reexamining the situation, I decided that perhaps Adams was not the laughing stock.

"Of course she is. Look at the way they fit!" Franklin explained. At that point, I could no longer excuse Jefferson's actions as being the result of his lusty ignorance. Whether he did not know or simply did not care that I was _not_ Martha Jefferson, I am pleased to think _I _shall never know. But I could feel my patience running thin. I wanted Adams and Franklin gone and the evening to be over. But more importantly, I hoped to God that this embrace would not last any longer. Jefferson pulled away and stared at me admiringly. "Ah…" I thought as he released me, "There is a god." But before I knew it, the useless man-whore started up again! I accepted at that time that this would be a horrific experience forever engraved in my mind. But to my relief, Adams and Franklin soon gave up on introducing themselves and abandoned the two of us alone together. As soon as they shut the door behind them, I pushed Jefferson away with all the strength I could muster. Briefly losing his balance, he slumped onto his desk, causing his quill to fall to the ground. I turned quickly, as I did not particularly want him to get a good look at me. He stood there quietly, and though I could not see his expression, I was quite aware of his confusion.

Finally, the awkward silence was broken by a sudden, "Ah ha!" coming from his direction. I curiously glanced towards him and was rather puzzled to see that he had taken up a violin, preparing to play for me. Compared to all the things he could have been preparing to do, the violin seemed wonderful. And then I suddenly formed an idea. I had been wondering how on earth I could get away from Jefferson, once Adams' curiosity had been satisfied and my task consequently accomplished. And then it came to me…

Turning on my usual southern charm, I sauntered towards the unsuspecting musician. Though he obviously became curious as to the reason for my girlish grin, he continued bowing, never missing a note. I decided for safety's sake that it might be best to cross the room and creep up behind him. I lowered my head closer to his. Needless to say, it took very little cajoling to persuade him to release his grip on the violin. Once I had a strong hold on the instrument, I knew I was safe. He did not even have the chance to gasp before I lifted the violin and mercilessly bashed him over the head with it.

I had never been quite so thankful to have the impressive strength of a healthy young man. I briefly shook Jefferson to see if he was awake, though I would not have had any idea of what to do had the violin not done the job. But fortunately for me, it became quite clear that Jefferson was unconscious.

I pranced towards his desk, picked up the quill pen from the floor and wrote a brief note:

"Dear Thomas,

I deeply regret to inform you that urgent family problems call me back to Virginia. If you are wondering why you cannot remember anything that happened last night, I should probably explain that you smacked your little head against the wall about half way through the evening. But I assure you that we had one _helluva_ good time!"

From the few moments in which I had become acquainted with Martha Jefferson, I could tell that her saying such things might be a _bit_ out of character. Anyway, after crossing this out, I continued:

"…I should tell you, Thomas, that I am not happy with our relationship. It is for this reason that after leaving here, it is my intention to never see you again. Do not come looking for me. I guarantee that you shall _never_ find me…"

Again, I thought this through. I did not particularly want to alarm Jefferson, considering that I most likely would have to listen to him complain in Congress about his cruel wife. This would be a rather burdensome inconvenience on my conscience. Scribbling out the last few sentences, I decided it would be best to just allow him to figure out that Martha was gone on his own. What remained of my crossed out mess of a letter was rather pathetic, so I tossed it on the floor with the rest of the wasted paper and took out a new sheet. Not wanting to go into too much detail, I wrote:

"Dear Thomas,

I am going back to Virginia. I will see you someday… maybe.

Your loving little wife,

Martha".

I folded the paper and slipped it under his head. Joy pulsed though me as I dashed towards the door. But that joy was soon replaced with boiling aggravation as I looked out the window to see Mr. Adams. The strange little man had fallen asleep at the bottom of the stairs, blocking my only way out. And this was not all. I stood there, watching him, as he started to sing this unbearable love song, switching from his normal, nasally voice to a piercing falsetto.

"_Do you still smell of vanilla and spring air…_" Uh! I did not care that he was asleep. This was more than I could stand. "_And is my favorite lover's pillow still firm and fair…_"

"_Favorite_ lover?" I thought to myself. "You mean you've actually had more than one?"

"_WHAT WAS THEEEEERE JOHN!!!!_" He screeched. I grasped my ears in pain. "_STILL IS THEEEERE JOHN…_" Though morbid curiosity had briefly gotten the better of me, I decided at this point, in order to preserve what was left of my sanity, to close the window. I turned to Jefferson, who was still passed out.

There was no chance of my getting away until Adams disappeared. So until that happened I would have to wait and watch. Overcome with fatigue, I crawled onto the bed and closed my eyes. But then a horrible thought shot through my mind. What if Jefferson woke during the night and saw me sleeping there? Being that I was a spectacular beauty, I could not risk being caught off guard by any of his sick little ideas. That being settled, I struggled off the bed and sat in a tall wooden chair. It was far from comfortable, but considering all that could happen if I remained on the bed, the chair seemed more and more appealing to me. Before I knew it, I was fast asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter 6**_

Mr. John Dickinson stood over the bag containing the corpse of the unknown woman. He sighed irritably as he opened the sack once more. He had dismissed all of his servants for the evening, so he knew there would be no witnesses. But he feared that perhaps they were becoming suspicious. Especially the manservant Charles Turner, who had been eying the sack ever since Dickinson dismissed Wilson. But they would never be able to prove anything… unless they were to go digging in the basement. Dickinson lifted the woman from the sack, struggled to throw her over his shoulder and ventured towards the closest bedchamber he could find. Unfortunately, since his mansion was quite grand, it took him a while to find one. It had been his wife's idea to make the mansion so large. Thinking of this, Dickinson glanced about, paranoid. This would be the absolute worst situation for Mary (or as most people called her, Polly) to come downstairs to unexpectedly. Fortunately, she was not to be seen. This being settled, Dickinson continued his search for a bedchamber with a lock on the door. As soon as he found one, he thrust the corpse onto the bed and promptly quitted the room, locking the door behind him.

"That's done…" he thought to himself. "Now to the arduous task of digging the plot. Why do I not force Wilson to do this? He's the inadvertent murderer!" But this was not the time to grumble. He swiftly ran down the stairs to the basement, hoping the dirt would not destroy his clothes.

To his surprise, this was a fairly easy task. It only took him about an hour to complete. Had he been a younger, stronger man he most likely would have been able to do this in less time. But at last the plot was ready and all he had to do was check the corpse over just to be completely certain it was dead. He definitely did not want to relive the incident with Great Aunt Bessy.

Dickinson had not been there at the time, but according to Wilson, she had specifically asked him to bring her some hard cider. Wilson obediently yielded to her request, but unfortunately, all he could find was regular cider. Not wanting to disappoint her, he rummaged through the kitchen until he found a large bottle of what appeared to be rum. He dumped a bit into the regular cider, assuming that she would not notice the difference. However, he soon discovered that what he added into her cider was not rum, but was actually strychnine diluted in water. (One wonders why there was diluted strychnine in Dickinson's kitchen in the first place.) Dickinson questioned Wilson several times as to how he could possibly confuse the two. But Wilson swore that it was unintentional. Anyway, Aunt Bessy began convulsing and appeared dead within three hours. This was Wilson's first murder and needless to say, he was a little bit frightened by the whole thing. He originally had no intention of telling Dickinson what he had done, but Dickinson had caught him when he was preparing to drag her out of his house. So Dickinson dug the first hole in his basement, found some wood, which he hastily put together into a makeshift coffin, threw her in, nailed it shut, and covered it with a fairly thick layer of dirt, never to be heard of again… so he thought.

But the next day, as the manservant Charles Turner was helping Dickinson dress, Dickinson noticed that Turner was acting queerly. He questioned him and all Turner could say was that the night before, when he had brought something down into the basement, he heard the most terrible screams and banging. He looked all about, yet could not find anyone. Suddenly, it became all too clear what the problem was. Turner asked Dickinson several times if the mansion was haunted. Dickinson, who had weakly slumped into a chair, tried his best to appear cool and calmly informed him that there were no ghosts. It took several moments to assuage Turner, but once he had convinced him that he was safe, Turner left him to his own horrified thoughts. When he was sure no one would sneak up on him, Dickinson ran down to the basement and frantically dug up the coffin. He pulled open the lid with great difficulty and an absolutely terrible sight met his eyes. Aunt Bessy was definitely dead… now. But she had a terrified expression on her lifeless face and Dickinson shuddered as he stared down at the sides of the coffin, which had been clawed at considerably. Ever since this traumatizing incident, Dickinson had made it a point to pay specifically close attention to all of the victims, vowing that he would never bury one again unless he was positive that she was dead.

Dickinson slowly unlocked the door and crossed to the bed where the unknown woman was situated. He sat beside her and lifted her head in his hands. It did not seem as though she were breathing; yet he certainly could not be too sure. He leaned her head against the pillow. Unaccustomed to being this forward with any woman, living or dead, he smoothed his vest agitatedly and after a moment of mental preparation, pulled her closer and placed one ear against her chest, attempting to hear a heartbeat. But then suddenly, to his terror, she moved.

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_Meanwhile…_

Martha Jefferson slowly opened her eyes. The room spun around her and she felt horribly ill. She strained to sit up, yet was far too weak to do so. She gazed across the room, completely unaware of where she was. She was on a bed in a very dark room with no windows.

The last thing she remembered was the carriage. She had been with that young man… Rutledge! That was his name! And he had been leading her across a rather busy street. For some reason, they had been loitering in the road, when that crazed man in a carriage came directly towards her. But how could she have possibly lived through this?

Well, fortunately for Martha Jefferson, the week before the accident, Philadelphia had received a strong douse of rain. In fact, it had rained relentlessly and had practically flooded the roads. When the carriage plowed over her, the ground had been quite soft and she had simply been pushed into it, not seriously injured by it at all. Yet it had been enough to knock her unconscious for quite a while. Martha Jefferson most likely suffered from what would, at a later point in history, be referred to as a concussion.

She felt panic set in and wanted nothing more than to escape from this terrible, dark room and find her husband. He would protect her. She was sure of it! But how could she escape from this monstrous place? That was the dilemma that plagued her. All of a sudden, she heard a noise at the door. She closed her eyes and tried her best to appear unconscious, for fear of what could happen if her captive thought she was awake. The door opened and she could hear footsteps coming closer to her. She tried not to flinch when the person sat beside her. She squinted her eyes open just enough to see who was hovering over her. It was a man whom she had never seen before in her life. She tried her best not to squeal when he lifted her face and put it uncomfortably close to his own. She could feel her heart racing. Thankfully, he lay her back down. She prayed that this strange man would disappear, giving her the chance to run. But he was not finished. After twitching for several moments, he once again took her in his arms and to her complete astonishment, put his head directly under her throat.

"Oh God!" she thought, her eyes bulging open. "He's trying to fondle me!" This was more than any self-respecting woman could handle. She took a handful of his hair, pulled him away, and smacked his face into the floor. Considering the entire trauma her body had just been through, this would have been quite the spectacle, had anyone been watching. She kicked him a few times angrily and ran out of the house. It was late at night and the moon was not to be found. Somehow, she had to find her Tom!

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Dickinson groaned in pain as the crazed woman rushed out of the bedchamber. This was hardly his idea of a nice, quiet evening.

"Curse you, James Wilson!" he exclaimed. "I will NEVER dispose of your corpses again! No matter _how_ much you beg!"


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter 7**_

A surge of pain crawled down Mr. Edward Rutledge's spine as he attempted to lift his head, his neck having grown stiff from his sleeping in a chair all night. He reached deep down into his corset to pull out his pocket watch.

"Good Lord! It's only six-thirty in the morning! Well, I suppose that's what comes from sleeping in front of a window." After returning the pocket watch to its previous location, Rutledge strained to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck and moaning pathetically. "I can't breathe… My joints are all out of place… Mr. Adams had better be a man of his word!" But there was no time for him to be irritable. This was his chance to escape and he was not going to miss it.

He yanked Jefferson by the queue and scrutinized his lifeless facial expression. No, he was not dead. But fortunately he was suffering from such a strong blow to the head it was rather unlikely that he would recover for quite a while. Though perhaps to an average (slightly more empathetic) person, this would be cause for alarm, it was just what Rutledge needed to rejoice. He pranced towards the window perhaps a tad bit too effeminately and opened it, a sudden urge to flood his face in sunlight randomly possessing him.

"It has been accomplished!" he thought to himself, smiling towards the sky. "And now to more important issues… I cannot simply wait here all day to make sure Jefferson is well. He'll come around eventually." But just as Rutledge was preparing to close the windows and turn towards the room, a loud piercing voice caught his attention.

"GOOD MORROW!"

Rutledge nearly squealed with contempt when he glanced down to see John Adams _still there_, once again accompanied by Dr. Franklin. It took Mr. Rutledge a brief moment to collect himself before he was able to mask his sour grimace with an enchanting smile. Ignorant New England cretin! Did he really know absolutely _nothing_ of how to speak to a lady?

"Is it the habit in Philadelphia for strangers to shout at young ladies from the street?" Rutledge tried not to smile too widely when he saw Mr. Adams begin to squirm.

"Uh," Franklin began, not too phased. "Not really but-"

"And for men of your age it is not only unseemly… it is _unsightly_!" Oh, Mr. Rutledge was definitely having far too much fun with this. Though it was rather difficult for him to alter his deep Southern drawl into the syrupy sweet melodic voice of Martha Jefferson. And as vain as he was, he would reluctantly admit to himself that this poor crackling imitation had much to be desired.

"Excuse me madam," Adams said, attempting to not seem flustered. "But we met last evening."

"I spoke to no one last evening…" Rutledge was not entirely certain why he had decided to lie about this. After all, it was not as if it really would have made a difference whether or not she remembered seeing them. But he had blinded them with so many lies in the past few days, he doubted that this trifling little falsehood would matter.

"Indeed you did not," Franklin clarified, approaching the steps. "Nevertheless, we did present ourselves. This is Mr. John Adams." He gestured towards Adams as he ascended the stairs. Adams made a brief, pathetic attempt at a formal bow. "I'm Dr. Benjamin Franklin… The inventor of the stove."

"Oh!" Rutledge covered his mouth in the most feminine way he could force himself to, trying to appear as though he cared who they were. "Oh, please! I know your names very well, but- Well, you said you presented yourselves last night?" As Rutledge recalled, only Adams had introduced them the previous evening, and as soon as 'Martha' said this, a pained look of rejection swept across Adams' face, disappearing within a matter of moments.

"It's of no matter. Your thoughts were well-taken elsewhere."

Yes, of course! If Mr. Rutledge could somehow manage to wake Jefferson and convince him to go down and speak to them for a while, it would give him the perfect opportunity to disappear. Rutledge discretely turned towards the useless Virginian dolt and gave him a swift kick to the stomach. Unfortunately, this new injury did not even cause him to budge. He turned back to the two gentlemen outside, hoping that they had not seen enough to become suspicious.

"As my husband is not yet up…" He explained, oh so sweetly.

"Well, then shall we start over again? Won't you join us?" Franklin prompted.

Oh…good… God… What was Mr. Rutledge to do? He could hardly say no! Yet as soon as he was down there with them, they would be sure to see his face in the sunlight. Not only would his plan have failed, but he most likely would never hear the end of it. But he had no choice.

"Why, yes! Of course!" And at this, Rutledge turned from the window, gave Jefferson one last violent shake of desperation, and prepared for the door. But as soon as he was about to exit, something rather alarming came to his attention. "Good Lord! Man _or_ woman, I should at least have the common decency to dress!" It appeared that Rutledge was still wearing the same frock he had forced McNair to help him put on the day before. He ripped the dress off and kneeled down next to his trunk, which McNair must have slipped inside when he and Adams had been asleep. He rapidly pulled out the fluffy gown with puffy sleeves that McNair had been eying and pulled it over his head. Thankfully, with this gown, his biceps were not a source of evil. He briefly glanced into the mirror, just to be sure that his wig had not teetered off his head. But all was well and he was now ready to go downstairs and enter the world as Martha Jefferson.


	8. Chapter 8

**_Chapter 8_**

"I beg your pardon, gentlemen," Mrs. Jefferson said as she lightly skipped down the steps towards Adams and Franklin.

"Hmmm…" Adams thought to himself. "Franklin's right about one thing. She certainly is a beauty."

"My husband is not yet up."

"Yes we know. We have already established that!" Adams nearly snapped, before checking himself. But why was it that all of the beautiful Southern girls seemed so unbearably mind-numbing? But perhaps Mr. Adams was just being impatient. After all, he had just spent the night on a wooden staircase. Adams tried to control his urge to rub his own shoulders, for fear of shocking the delicate flower. But he doubted someone as young and lovely as the woman before him had ever suffered from a shoulder ache.

"It is indeed an honor to meet two of the greatest men in America." Though perhaps it was just his bad disposition playing tricks on him, Adams thought that he had certainly detected a bit of sarcasm in the young lady's speech. But Franklin clearly did not pick up on it.

"Certainly the greatest within earshot, anyway." Though he certainly had a deep measure of respect for the old gentleman, watching him leer and drool over innocent young women sometimes compelled Adams to want to beat the old man's gouty foot with his cane. Thankfully, Adams was not a man to give in to such impulsive (yet satisfying) whims.

"I'm not an idle flatterer, Dr. Franklin. My husband admires you both greatly." There was that tone again. Adams smiled as cheerfully as he possibly could towards the young lady, but there was something inescapably wrong with the situation in which Mr. Adams found himself. Before him stood a gorgeous, graceful, magnificent lady, overflowing with confidence and poise and yet… he genuinely could not stand the sight of her! There was something about her voice perhaps… No, it was not her voice. It was the manner in which she spoke. It almost seemed as if, though the words were quite cordial, they had a double-meaning. It seemed as though she were mocking him. And the way she kept grinning pleasantly at him… It was pure condescension! Well, what did this _fair_ lady have to be so condescending about? She was merely the wife of a congressman! She was no better than his own Abigail!

But here Adams cut himself off. Good God, what was he carrying on about? His mind had been racing for a full minute over all of the various reasons he had for absolutely loathing this delightful lady. It had to stop. He would force himself to like her. "Uh…" He had to say _something_. "Did you sleep well, madam?" As they came out, he knew they were definitely not the words he had meant to use. Franklin gasped and flapped his arms at him in a positively ridiculous fashion. Yet the lady's revolting- _sweet!_- expression had hardly changed. But he could redeem himself. "Well, I mean, uh… Did you lie comfortably?" No, that was not what he had meant to say either. Franklin took a few steps away, obviously ashamed to be associated with Adams. "Dammit! You know what I mean," he whispered to Franklin.

"Yes, we know what you mean."

Adams glanced over at the young woman, who during this brief exchange, had slipped away from them towards a doorway. But Franklin was not willing to let her go so easily. Adams, however, really would have preferred that she had left. For as soon as he made the rather embarrassing slip, he had noticed a wide-eyed smile, almost a laugh, on her pretty little face. Something about that chuckle bothered him… It was a source of intense irritation to him, yet he really did not understand why. Perhaps after the past several years of misery, he was at last beginning to lose his sanity. But he had expected that if anyone drove him out of his wits, it would be a true source of vexation in his life, such as Mr. Dickinson or, more likely, Mr. Rutledge… But why Jefferson's lovely little bride? Had she done anything in the past to bother him? What was it about that smile and her way of speaking? Even the way she sauntered towards the door fired up a feeling of exasperation in him. Had they been great enemies in past lives? No, no, no. Adams did not believe in reincarnation or anything of the sort. But though he agreed that it was positively bizarre for him to believe, it seemed to Mr. Adams as though this was not the first time, but one of many reoccurring instances, where these grotesque mannerisms had plagued him.

His thoughts were interrupted by Franklin. "Tell us about yourself. We have heard precious little. What's your first name?"

"Martha," she squeaked.

"Martha…" Franklin looked as though he had never heard a more attractive name in his entire life. But Adams decided that if he were to get away with concealing these genuine feelings of enmity he harbored for her, he would have to mimic Franklin implicitly. "He might have told us that," Franklin murmured to him. "Your husband doesn't say very much."

"Most silent man in Congress! I've never heard him utter three sentences together!" Though Adams had meant for this to seem cheerful, it came out a bit forced.

"Not everyone's a talker, John," Franklin mumbled, subtly giving him the signal to keep quiet.

"Yes, it's true you know. Tom is not… a talker." Oh, but she certainly was saying this to mock Adams! He could tell! He knew it! He- Oh… Good God, what was he thinking?

"_Oh he never speaks his passions, he never speaks his views. Whereas other men speak volumes, the man I love is mute. In truth I can't recall being wooed with words at all. Even now…_" Okay… Now she was singing. Adams could handle that… as random as it seemed. But he supposed it was better than her giving him that strange little chuckle.

"Oh don't stop, madam," he said, approaching her as she once again crept towards the door. Why did she keep edging that way whenever they got close to her?

"No. Tell us, how did he win you? And how does he hold on to a _bounty_ such as you?" Franklin asked. Though Adams cared little about how Jefferson managed to 'win' her (for she was one prize he prayed he would _never_ have to accept), he could not help but gaze upon her in wonder. How could a 'bounty' as truly breath-taking as she was… seem so completely repulsive to him? Was there something terribly, _terribly_ wrong with him?

"Well, surely you've noticed that Tom is a man of many accomplishments. Author, lawyer, statesman, architect, farmer… and still one more… that I hesitate to mention."

"Don't hesitate, madam," he urged. The sooner they were finished speaking with her the better.

"No, tell us. What else can that redheaded tombstone do?" Franklin asked. Suddenly, she gave them both a rather unsettling gesture to come closer. Franklin had no scruples in doing so, yet Adams came close to resisting. He wanted to get as far away from this terrifying woman as possible. And alas! She sang once more.

"_He plays the violin_

_He tucks it right under his chin_

_And he bows, oh he bows_

_For he knows, __yes he knows_

_That it's heigh, heigh, heigh diddle diddle,_

_'Twixt my heart, Tom and his fiddle,_

_My strings are unstrung…Heigh, heigh, heigh, heigh…I am undone…_"

At this, she quickly opened the door and it seemed as though she were about to disappear. But then Franklin felt the need to stop her.

"The violin, madam?"

"_I hear his violin_

_And I get that feeling within_

_And I sigh, oh I sigh_

_He draws near, very near_

_And it's heigh, heigh, heigh diddle diddle,_

_Goodbye to the fiddle,_

_My strings are unstrung..._

_Heigh, heigh, heigh, heigh…_

_I'm always undone…_"

At this point, the three of them had somehow managed to go through the doorway into a rather large, shady garden with a bulky tree in the middle and a water-mill off to the side. Martha Jefferson pranced about as she sang, never allowing the gentlemen to come too close to her. It were as though she thought they might give her some kind of disease. Adams especially, he thought. Not that he had any particular desire to be closer than he was. But why did she feel the need to dance about like a little flirtatious peacock?

"That settles it, John. We're taking up the violin." Adams had a few tactless remarks in store for Franklin regarding this horrible idea, but decided, for his own reputation's sake, to keep silent.

"Very well, madam, you have us playing the violin. What happens next?" As it was, Adams could not help but feel a little curious to see just how long this woman would be willing to go on if she were given the opportunity. Adams had never been more thankful in his life for having such a level-headed, sensible woman as Abigail for a wife. She would never make a complete exhibition of herself the way this Southern Belle was.

Martha was now seated on a bench below the tree. The two men approached her, one slightly more merrily than the other. "Next, Mr. Adams?"

"Yes. What does _Tom_ do now?" Oh yes, he thought to himself. He could use that mocking little tone just as easily as _she_ could, that pompous, aggravating little- WHAT WAS _WRONG_ WITH HIM?!

"Why just what you'd expect." Adams waited for her to continue, but she did not. Oh dear… Not only was she lacking in proprieties and starving for attention… but it seemed as though, if he were not mistaken, she was speaking of her private love life openly to complete strangers as though there was nothing objectionable about it. He glanced up at Franklin to see if he was thinking the same thing as he was. Audacious hussy! "We dance!"

"Dance?" Adams mumbled, half relieved, yet feeling slightly guilty about the last insult he had mentally hurled at her.

"Dance? Incredible!" Ugh, did Franklin really have to be so overly enthusiastic about every little word that came out of the creature's mouth? It was- OH DEAR GOD! HE WAS DANCING WITH HER!

The two of them (Franklin and the audacious huss- uh hmm!- Martha) swirled about the garden as though it were there own little ballroom. Had she no shame at all? Adams watched in shock. He could not help but wonder why it was that Franklin constantly complained about his big gouty foot, yet when the occasion came for him to jump around a garden with a young beauty, the gout seemed to have magically disappeared. Oh, the _terrible_ gout, Adams thought to himself. Perhaps he should have called it the "gout of convenience."

"Who's playing the violin?" he asked, sort of wishing to ruin their fun.

"Oh John. Really!" And that was all Franklin bothered saying. They danced like this for several minutes, Adams waiting impatiently for them to come to their senses. But before he knew what was happening, Franklin suddenly came towards him, snatched the cane out of his hand (rather rudely, Adams thought) and for some reason, the bewitching repulsion was standing before him, waiting for him to waltz with her. He simply did not understand this woman at all. One moment, she was trying desperately to get away from them. And now she was forcing him to dance with her? Perhaps she had resigned herself to the fact that Franklin would never allow her to leave now that he had seen her. Adams tried to think of what he could do to escape, but nothing came to mind. At least nothing the least bit polite did. He supposed that he could head-butt the girl into a brick wall and run through the doorway at full speed, but that might be a little out of character for him. And besides, just because he loathed the little thing with every fiber of his being, he did not really want to hurt her feelings in any way. So after hesitating for perhaps an awkwardly lengthy measure of time, he placed one hand on her waist and the other in her own.

She had rather large hands for such a feminine little thing. And she was very tall. He did not like that. Tall women intimidated him. Not that Abigail was a dwarf or anything, but she did not seem half as tall as this odious giant. But she was very pretty in the face. He would give her that much. Sharp blue eyes… Perfectly straight teeth… Why, if he did not know any better, he would say that this towering quintessence of allure was no other than young Ned Rutledge… HA! What a preposterous thought.

"Oh, John. You can dance!" The rather emotional tone in Franklin's voice when he said this made Adams feel slightly uncomfortable.

"We still do a few things in Boston, Franklin!" Like head-butt unsuspecting young ladies and run as fast as humanly possible! Oh, no, no. Again, Adams thought, he could never do that. But the longer he danced with her, the more tempting the idea became. Apparently Mrs. Jefferson wanted the dance to be over with as well, for all of a sudden, they were no longer waltzing, but seemed to be jumping about the garden the same way she and Franklin had been doing so before. But at last this came to an end and instead of choosing between the two partners, she simply jumped from one to the other. What did she think they were? Pathetic little dogs, waiting for her to award them with her attention? Adams was not sure how much longer he could stand this. He was certainly going to do or say something terrible if this did not stop.

"_Heigh, heigh, heigh, heigh…" _Oh dear… She had done it. Now she had done it! She had him singing along to her annoying little tune as well! What was happening to him?!

"_Heigh!!!!" _She began edging her way towards the stairs.

"_When heaven calls to me,_

_Sing me no sad eulogy…_" She didn't have to worry about that, Adams thought.

"_Say I die, loving bride, loving wife, loving life…" _

She took hold of their hands and pulled them along with her. "Slow down! I am not a horse!" Adams nearly shouted out. But instead, to his horror, he found himself singing again. Only now, it was the three of them harmonizing together.

"_For it was heigh, heigh, heigh diddle diddle…_

_'Twixt my heart, Tom, and his fiddle,_

_And ever 'twill be…_

_Heigh, heigh, heigh, heigh..._

_Through eternity…_

_He plays the violin…_"

She stood at the top of the staircase looking down upon them with a smile. At last she was preparing to let them be! Adams had never thought of himself as a particularly cruel fellow. Obnoxious and disliked, yes. Cruel, no. But what was it inside him that had built up such a strong abhorrence towards the kind, gentle, pleasant, not to mention radiant Martha Jefferson? He was sure that he would never know. But never again, if he could help it, would he come near her. It was too much for his perplexed little mind to take. As he gazed up, he noticed someone coming out of the room behind her. It was Jefferson.

_Author's note: Just to clarify, I did not write the lyrics to "He Plays the Violin" and the majority of the dialogue in this chapter, as well as that in chapter 7, came from the movie. So nobody sue me!_


	9. Chapter 9

_**Chapter 9**_

"Hello, Love," Jefferson whispered into his wife's ear provocatively. He held her close to him, despite the fact that she seemed to be pulling away. "I just found your note. I certainly am glad that you have not gone yet. Imagine… Leaving without saying goodbye!" He smiled at her warmly before lifting his hand in front of her, a piece of parchment paper between his fingers.

"What is that? The Declaration? Might I read-" But before she could continue to question him, he threw the paper over the balcony and watched it gently float down to Mr. Adams, who eagerly snatched it.

Martha's expression briefly turned to that of annoyance and Jefferson could have sworn that he heard her mumble the word, "Imbecile!" under her breath. But he was most likely mistaken.

"Dear Mr. Adams,

I am taking my wife back to bed. Kindly go away.

Your obedient,

T. Jefferson."

As soon as Martha heard Mr. Adams read this (perhaps a bit too loudly), her eyes grew wide and it seemed as though she was about to run. But she would not escape _that_ easily.

"Come along," Jefferson prompted as he led (or rather, dragged) her back inside.

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Yes, it was true that the generally sangfroid Edward Rutledge was at last beginning to lose his composure. Were all women disrespected in such a way, being tugged and passed about like a warm loaf of bread? It was not to be endured!

This entire morning had been rather painful for him. First he was subjected to the two obnoxious radicals down below. God knew he did not _want_ to sing and prance about like a ballerina with two such odious gentlemen. But what else was he to do?

After all, he had no idea what that mindless brute Jefferson did in his spare time. The violin was simply the first think he could think of.

He admitted, it had been somewhat entertaining at first, making up completely random facts about a man he hardly knew. And oh! How he had duped the two gentlemen! Or…at least Dr. Franklin. Adams, however… He seemed strangely suspicious… as though he could see through the disguise… But how could he? Rutledge's performance had been infallible!

"Come along, dearest," Jefferson urged, tugging on Rutledge's sleeve.

"Uh- I cannot… Uh…" Rutledge had officially broken a sweat. Yet Adams and Franklin were still lingering below, so what could he do but follow?

Rutledge quickly stepped in front of Jefferson, crossing the room sprightly as Jefferson closed the door. In need of physical security, Rutledge grasped at the somewhat mutilated violin. He could hear Jefferson groaning on the other side of the room.

"Dear, I do not mean to sound peculiar, but what happened to me last evening? I seem to be suffering from an intense migraine, there's a huge bruise on the back of my head and the pain is so very hideous I can hardly open my eyes to look at you."

"Ah… That explains it," Rutledge whispered to himself.

"Explains what?"

"Well, it explains why you do not recog- I uh… I mean… I will tell you what happened. You were about to come over and embrace me when…" Rutledge's eyes turned towards the floor. "When… you tripped over that pile of paper…and…hit your head n the edge of your desk…Right…_That's_ what happened."

"Uh huh…" Jefferson mumbled, finally noticing the battered instrument in Rutledge's hand. "OH DEAR LORD! What did you _do_ to it?!!" Rutledge jumped several feet in the air. He had never before heard Jefferson speak above a monotone-whisper. "I mean…" Jefferson tried to control himself. "What happened to the violin…_dear_?!" The stress he put on the last word caused Rutledge to shudder. "My great grandfather carved this instrument with his own hands. How could-"

As he stared through the window, Jefferson suddenly looked terrified. Rutledge swiftly turned to see what was frightening him. As soon as he saw the cause of Jefferson's shock, he nearly collapsed. Outside on the balcony, staring in at them was Martha Jefferson who, needless to say, was a little disturbed by the current situation as well.

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"What on- I cannot- How are-" With each sentence fragment, Jefferson's head turned from Rutledge to Martha. But clearly Rutledge was in no mood to explain himself.

_SMASH!_

With one smooth movement of Rutledge's arm, Jefferson was once again face down on the floor unconscious, bits of violin dispersing through the room.

Though that took care of his current problem with Jefferson, it in no way pacified Martha. After briefly glancing down through the window to make certain that Adams and Franklin had disappeared (which they had), Rutledge scampered out of the room, long silky strands of his wig blowing in the breeze.

Martha took a step back, obviously a bit startled.

"Who _are_ you?" she managed to ask.

"My dear Mrs. Jefferson!" Rutledge drawled out in his regular deep tone, as though nothing was peculiar about him. "How on earth did you manage to survive that accident? You must believe that I did try my best to resuscitate you! I thought that you most certainly were deceased. But you have no idea how relieved I am to see you here, alive and well!"

Martha squinted, quite certain that her eyes must be deceiving her. "Mr. …Rutledge?"

"Yes, my lady." Martha stood in silence, waiting for the explanation, which clearly must be owed to her.

"Uh…Sir… Why are you wearing my morning gown?"

Rutledge glanced down, suddenly feeling a little ashamed. "Well… If you must know…" And at this, Rutledge proceeded to explain the entire story as it had happened (or at least the parts of it of which he was aware), thinking this would be much easier than thinking of a good lie to tell. Martha listened intensely, though not entirely sure how she was supposed to react to any of it. Feelings of abhorrence and astonishment just seemed too unoriginal.

"Let me see if I understand… When you thought that I was dead, instead of taking me to a doctor, your immediate reaction was to put on my dress and run to my husband?" An awkward silence pursued.

"No… That is to say… it was not my _immediate_ reaction."

"Uh huh." She was not the least bit convinced. "And then, when you arrived here, you proceeded to nearly kill Thomas."

"Oh, my dear lady! I never intended to kill him… I just needed to jostle him a bit. Any man in my position would have done the same. You must understand."

"Oh dear… Well…" She glanced at Jefferson. After this traumatizing day, was there really any point in succumbing to fury? Seeing Mr. Rutledge in her dress almost seemed to be the perfect ending to such a fantastic turn of events. "He's not dead… I think. I suppose no harm has been done." After all, what else could she really say?

"Exactly. But you must find a way to calm him. Somehow I doubt he will be happy with you when he awakens…" Martha had not entirely been listening to Rutledge when he said this, for she was somewhat distracted by the revolting gentleman walking through the streets below them, followed by a short, fidgeting man in gray.

"Yes, Mr. Rutledge, I will calm my husband. And I give you my word that I shall never speak of this to anyone. But in return you must do something for me… You see that tall somber fellow in green down below?" Rutledge glanced down and immediately recognized him.

"Mr. Dickinson?"

"Miserable creature, he is! After the accident, I have positively no idea what happened to me, but when I came to my senses, that terrible man, unaware of my consciousness, attempted to make advances towards me, much to my grim bewilderment." Rutledge gave her a queer look, trying to conceal an amused grin.

"Mr. Dickinson? Mr. _John Dickinson_? Uh… My dear lady, might you be mistaken?"

"Not at all! He held me close enough for me to make out every detail of his facial features."

"How very absurd! I would never have taken him for that sort of man."

"Well, he's an absolute rogue and I entreat you to defend my honor, as my husband, at the present time, is unable to do so." Rutledge stared at her for a few more moments, still rather skeptical. He had always enjoyed the company of Mr. Dickinson and the last thing he wanted was to become the gentleman's enemy. But he _was_ still in disguise… and he could use this to his own advantage.

"Believe me, Madam, I will defend your honor. You have my word. But go to your husband." Martha gave Rutledge a brief curtsy before scurrying inside to Jefferson. Rutledge peered inside to make sure all was well.

It was not long before Jefferson awoke and, needless to say, the very sight of Martha frightened him out of his wits. Yet this woman had a certain charm about her, which even the most urbane gentleman of South Carolina lacked. After placing a sweet kiss on poor Jefferson's forehead, all of his abuse was forgotten.

Quite impressed by the lady's coquetry, Rutledge sprinted down the stairs. There was only one more task he needed to accomplish before he could return to his original gender.

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It had been a very peculiar morning in the life of John Adams. He had always enjoyed the company of ladies, though he was by no means a rake. To be sure, there had been certain women in the past that he found to be agitating. But he had never been entirely repulsed, especially by a woman who was as breathtaking as Mrs. Jefferson.

Perhaps he was spending too much time in Philadelphia. He rarely had the occasion to pass time with women, so perhaps he had forgotten how to take pleasure in doing so. How he missed his dear Abigail!

Staring out the window, Adams glanced down to see Mr. Dickinson and his minion James Wilson, having a heated yet quiet conversation. Once in a while Adams caught bits of it that disturbed him greatly.

"I thought she was dead, John! I swear I never would have given you the corpse had I thought it lived!"

"Obviously it would not have been a corpse if it were alive, ignorant cretin! I will not help you again, I am quite sure of _that_!"

"Please, John!" Now Wilson looked truly frightened. "_Please_ dispose of my bodies!"

This was more than Adams cared to hear. His thoughts were soon interrupted by the unexpected arrival of the very creature that he had been plaguing his mind no more than a few moments before.

Martha Jefferson, in all her splendor, crossed the street quite cautiously and moved towards Mr. Dickinson. Dickinson did not notice her until Wilson violently began to point and shake.

"Joooohn… Look behind you! It's… It's _her_! She's a bit taller than I remembered, but I'm quite certain it is she!"

"Mr. Dickinson?" she squeaked hoarsely. He turned curiously. But before he could react, Mrs. Jefferson suddenly gave him a vicious slap across the face. As soon as Adams saw this, he stood straight, bumping his head on the window above him. The following sight was absolutely appalling and unexplainable…and, not to mention, undeniably entertaining as well. The lady had an impressive amount of strength. Without giving Dickinson a chance to defend himself, she lifted him from the ground by the cravat and mercilessly began to thrash him, once in a while giving him horrific blows to the stomach. "Never…ever…try…to…take…advantage…of…a…defenseless…lady…again!" Each word came with a fresh injury. "Villainous rascal!" She exclaimed with a feminine flip of the hair, carelessly tossing him to the ground. She then departed, leaving Dickinson somewhat disfigured, sprawled out on the steps in a most undignified manner.

Though Adams was adamantly opposed to brutal violence, this serene spectacle (or at least _he_ thought it was serene) had left him quite impressed.

Martha glance up and gave him that condescending grin as she disappeared. Perhaps she was not quite so detestable after all.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Chapter 10**_

So at last the dilemma was settled. Obviously some miracle must have been involved, for without one, how could anyone have expected the plan devised by Edward Rutledge to go quite so smoothly? Never in his life (or at least the past twenty four hours) had Mr. Rutledge felt quite so exhilarated.

His chest ached from the corset and the multiple layers of petty coats weighed him down like an anchor. Yet somehow, none of it bothered him now. He was at last ready to return to his own lodgings and more importantly, his own appearance. His home was no more than a few buildings away from him.

Considering how unlikely it had been from the start that this day would go accordingly to his original plan, Mr. Rutledge could not help but feel a little pleased with himself. Surely had he not been quite so bold and brilliant about it, it would never have worked. He thought of what might have happened had he listened to the warnings of McNair the previous day. Surely Jefferson would have been quite upset, had he found out that Rutledge nearly caused Martha's demise. This could have led to Adams not giving him his veto. Yes, for this reason alone, all of what Mr. Rutledge had been put through was worthwhile. And, he thought, smiling to himself villainously, not a single person had seen through his disguise! How inexcusably ignorant of all of them. Yet, they would never find out; Mr. Rutledge was certain of this. But how he would take delight in the thought of him, the insignificant Southern dandy, making a common mockery (in his mind, at least) of supposedly the two sharpest minds in Congress: Adams and Franklin. Part of him wished that he could tell them, just to see how they might react. But a little common sense as well as a large measurement of vanity forbade him from doing so.

As Rutledge approached the gate leading to his lodgings, he glanced up to see two gentlemen walking towards him. The larger of the two was John Hancock and beside him was the ever-pensive Charles Thomson. Rutledge had thought that there were no more people he would have to fool with his disguise. Yet he was not the least bit timid. In fact, the way that the events of the day played out caused him to develop an even more pompous spirit. He actually wanted to run into the two gentlemen. It would be the perfect opportunity to give one final performance. He quickly approached, swaying his shoulders from side to side confidently.

"Mr. Thomson, I am well aware of General Washington's request…" Hancock grumbled, hardly even glancing up to see the fairly attractive young woman who was about to pass.

"Good day, gentleman!" Rutledge squealed in his raspy falsetto, as he approached the gate.

"Good day to you, Mr. Rutledge," Hancock murmured, giving him a slight bow. "Anyway, Thomson, as I was saying…"

Rutledge whipped his head towards Hancock, as though his words had struck him like a bolt of lightning.

It could not be… It was impossible…

Rutledge began to wheeze and then gasped for breath, clutching at his corset.

His disguise had been infallible! He told himself this almost every moment! And yet…

For some reason, Hancock hardly even broke his original train of thought. He continued walking with his companion, discussing congressional matters. Thomson, however, had been somewhat more observant. Thomson was not a man of words, unless of course he was reading a letter. But words were not necessary for him to convey exactly what he was thinking as he stared back at Mr. Rutledge. Even from several yards away, Rutledge could still see Thomson's eyebrows, furrowed in the most horrific manner.

After briefly considering the idea of chasing down the two gentlemen and forcing them to be sworn to secrecy, Rutledge decided perhaps it would be best to leave well enough alone. After all, he couldn't expect to go a whole day as a fair lady without _someone_ discovering it.

As he opened the door, Rutledge let out a sigh of relief. At last this was finished. And now he had his uncontested veto. But what would he prepare to use it for? There was always the issue of self government in individual colonies… Or perhaps he would protect the colony's right to export and import goods to and from other countries… But perhaps there was a more important issue for which he would use his veto, though he doubted that any of the Congressional radicals would dare mention it. He had never even thought about it before, but it seemed more important than any other trifling matter he could worry about.

Perhaps he would use his uncontested veto to protect the colonial slave trade…

THE END


End file.
